


Almost Left Behind

by titC



Series: High Notes [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Cold, F/M, Falling Through Ice, Good Samaritans, Hurt/Comfort, Ice, Whump, canonically presumed dead character, ghost - Freeform, technically not hypothermia but you get the idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25169548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: It's a harsh winter in New York, and Daredevil falls into a frozen-over lake...
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios
Series: High Notes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823374
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Marvel Fluff Bingo, Marvel Undercover 2020, Mattelektra Bingo.





	Almost Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel/pseuds/PixelByPixel) for the beta work!!
> 
> Written for Marvel Undercover 2020, from the (self) prompt _Time After Time_ by Cindy Lauper.
> 
> Also fills my Marvel Fluff Bingo prompt _sung to sleep_ , my MattElektra Bingo prompt _just one night_ , my Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt _falling through the ice_.

When the wooden slat broke under him, Matt didn’t have time to do much more than shout and hope God would be with him. He fell through thin ice straight into freezing water, and his body stopped responding. He gasped and his lungs tried to gulp in air; his hands tried to grab something, anything… he couldn’t let himself panic.

He was panicking anyway.

In the water, his balance was all shot. Up and down didn’t mean anything now his ears were filled with cold liquid, and his feet could find no purchase anywhere. All he could sense was ice, ice, ice. He kicked his feet, threw out his arms, but there was nothing – nothing – oh. A piece of rotten wood, probably the one that crumbled under his boots and sent him down. He clutched it and kept thinking, _head out of the water, head out of the water_.

What would Stick tell him?

“Matthew, you know what to do.” He did? “He taught you this; he taught you to control your temperature. Do it, Matthew. Don’t shiver; warm up, keep moving. You’re trained to do this; you can do it!”

But Stick, Stick was dead, right?

“Kick your legs, go on; follow my voice, Matthew. I’m right here.”

And Stick never called him…

He kicked again, hit something, and then he was out of the water. He gasped and flopped on the snow like a beached, waterlogged whale.

“What,” he said, then he lost consciousness.

A lump of snow falling on his face shocked him awake. Fuck, he was all wet. After coughing out what snow he’d inhaled, he turned on his belly and tried to push himself up. Well, less down, at any rate.

It didn’t work.

He was cold enough that he was more aware of the cold than actually feeling it. He wasn’t shivering, but his fingers didn’t seem to respond properly; his thighs refused to carry his weight. He could just lie down and let himself fall asleep. That, in fact, sounded perfect; he’d been tired, so tired, lately. And the snow was wet and cold under his cheek, but it was soft, too. He missed softness: warm, soft skin under his lips and silky hair falling on his face. He often thought about it.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Uh?” Matt spat out some more snow and tried to pinpoint where the voice was coming from, but he couldn’t hear or smell anyone; there was no source of heat around him either. Well, he could tell there were some animals around, but not the speaking kind. Great, he was hearing voices now. (Again.)

“Don’t fall asleep. Get up and get moving; you can find shelter a few hundred feet to your left.”

“You don’t exist,” he told the snow.

“You’re going to die if you stay here!”

“You sound worried. Are you worried?”

Matt wasn’t, but something was niggling at his brain and making it impossible to really let go and sleep. The voice… it was familiar. The intonation, the pitch – it didn’t echo quite right, not like a person’s, and it was somehow disembodied. There were no lungs, no throat around it, no mouth, no tongue shaping it. It was strange, but he didn’t want to care.

“I thought Murdocks never stayed down, Matthew.”

Oh. Oh, well, that was a low blow. But then, through the fog in his head, something registered and he found himself on his elbows, one hand patting his face. His mask was still there; how did the voice know his name? How did they even recognize him?

“You don’t know who I am.”

“Why, the mask? It’s not covering your arse, Matthew, and _that’s_ pretty recognizable.”

His… ass? But now his thoughts were up and running again, more or less, and they moved him to action. He couldn’t stay here, couldn't die here; once his body was found his entire work as a lawyer would be questioned and Foggy’s career and even freedom in jeopardy. He couldn’t do that to him. He had to get up, get moving.

It took a while; his limbs weren’t responding well and he couldn't feel his extremities, but he made it. There was a… log? fallen trunk? to his right and he used it to haul himself (mostly) up, and finally he was (more or less) standing. He wasn’t sure he could take more than two steps before falling down again, but he had to try. Except every sound was muffled, and he had a hard time orienting himself.

“Where to?”

“To your left.”

Okay, left, he could do that. Hallucination, dream, or guardian angel, it didn’t matter much; so far the voice had helped him, so he’d listen to it.

“Who are you?” He didn’t expect an answer and he didn’t get one, so he focused instead on putting one foot in front of the other, and when he found some wire fence he clung to it and followed its length. Seconds, minutes, he didn’t know; he just pushed (dragged) himself forward, and forward again. There was no more mysterious, disembodied voice, but it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was: shuffle, grip, push, cling, breathe.

And then the fence ended and he fell forward again.

“Oh shit, look!”

“Ugh,” Matt said.

“Leave him, Jay; he looks like bad news.”

“Shut up and help me carry him!”

Someone, no, two someones grabbed his arms and pulled him up, and he felt himself be half-dragged, half-walked away from the fence and the quiet and the icy, icy water.

He came to in a smaller space, something scratchy on his skin that wasn’t his clothes, and the same two voices as earlier. Voices that came with two warm bodies, not like the woman’s voice of before.

“He’s awake.”

“Looks like.”

“Hey, man, you with us?”

Matt tried to say something, but could only manage a groan. He was parched, his mouth dry like he had the worst hangover ever, and when he tried to move he realized he was trapped, trapped in the scratchy fabric that –

“Shit, he’s panicking!”

He rolled a bit to the side when a bit of fabric was yanked out from under him but then his arms were free to move, and his heart slowed down a bit.

“Sorry about that; you looked so cold we just wrapped all our extra blankets around you.”

“Kay,” Matt finally managed. “Uh, thanks.” His fingers and toes and nose and ears, too, were on fire; he’d been out in the cold and the wet for too long, but here… “It’s warm,” he croaked.

“Yeah, we got a fire going in our little squat palace, you know? Gotta keep warm in this shitty weather. What were you doing out there anyway?”

“Stop chatting up the guy, Jay. He’s with the police; those guys want to kick us out. We shouldn't have brought him here.”

“I’m not police.” He sounded like he’d smoked three packs a day since birth.

“Yeah? Well, you help them. Same difference. He’s going to send them right to us, Jay; I’m telling you.”

“He’s not. You’re not, right?”

“No.” He didn’t even know where _here_ was and who _us_ were. He wriggled a hand out from under the covers to scratch his face and – his mask. His face was bare; they’d seen him, they’d… he was _naked_. He froze, his hand half over his face.

“Yeah, we took your clothes off; they were wet and frozen, man.”

“My mask…”

“Look, I’m not judging or anything, but – cheap wool? _Wet_ cheap wool? Not great,” Jay said. “It’s all hanging near the fire, should be dry soon. Not that you’re in any state to leave.”

“I think he’s freaking out because we’ve seen his face.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, right. Uh, well, it’s not like we can see much of anything; pretty dark in here as you can see.”

Matt could smell hot metal and burning… things, a lot of things. Paper, crate wood… It was probably some sort of – stove, maybe, but that didn’t tell him anything about what they could or couldn't see. He couldn’t hear any light bulb around or smell candles, but that didn’t mean there weren’t. He wasn’t at the top of his game at the moment.

“Sure, yeah,” he answered. Still. He shouldn’t stay. “Be out of your hair real soon.” He sat up, which took way more time than it should have, and pretended to look around while clutching the blanket to his chest. It was scratchy, sure, but it was keeping the cold away and that counted for something.

He could map out his surroundings a bit better now: the stove or whatever it was stood a few feet to his right and Jay and his friend were on the other side of it; the room seemed big enough and mostly empty. There was a chair not far from him, and the air felt humid around it. His clothes drying out, probably.

“Doesn’t look like he’s gonna croak anymore.”

“Nah, you’re right. Hey man, we’re going upstairs but you stay here for the rest of the night, okay? Just don’t rat us out, and we’re even.”

“I won’t. Thanks, Jay. And… not-Jay.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just don’t die here, don’t want to deal with a corpse. Water’s running, if the pipes haven’t burst.”

“We’ve insulated them; they're not going to burst.”

“Why are you always so optimistic? I swear, it’s fucking annoying.”

Their bickering voices grew more distant as they left the room, and then creaking wood told Matt they were climbing up old stairs. He could hear them above him then, walking to and fro and moving furniture around. He hoped there was another stove upstairs, or a fireplace; something to keep them warm too. He shouldn’t stay, but his clothes were still damp and he was exhausted and, if he were to be honest with himself, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to go far. And he knew another impromptu nap in the winter night wouldn't end as well as the last one; good Samaritans didn’t swarm the neighborhood, especially in the darkest hours.

He really hoped they hadn’t seen his face, at least not well enough to recognize him, and he’d have to keep it at that. Hope wasn’t much, but what choice did he have? He managed to get to his feet and hobbled to the nearest wall, the blankets wrapped around him like a cape, and drank some water when he found a sink. That done, he made his way back to the stove and felt in his cargo pants pocket where his burner should be; if he was lucky maybe he could leave a message to… to whom, really? And what message anyway? He found the phone, but he couldn't turn it on; the water had to have damaged it. Maybe it was still salvageable, but for now, the only thing left to do was to try and grab a few hours of shuteye before going back to Hell’s Kitchen. He’d figure out the how after getting some rest.

He tried, he really tried to meditate or at least sleep; his body was exhausted, but all he could manage was a feverish doze. And he couldn't warm up, not really; there was a cold breeze somewhere that kept jolting him awake. He tried curling into a tighter ball under the blankets but still, random chills ran through him in the oddest places: his back, his hands, his brow… shit. He wasn’t going to rest, was he? There was something in the air that was niggling at him, always on the edge of his perception but that he couldn't quite pinpoint. He couldn't tell if it was because his senses were half on the fritz still or because it was too faint, whatever _it_ was.

But then, there was something like a… a perfume. A light, delicately floral scent over something else, something more metallic. Another cold breeze, and it felt like it was going right through the covers that he was holding tight around him. Then the sound of light footsteps coming closer, but he could feel no vibration through the floor. There was a disembodied presence again, and Matt wondered if it was God making Himself known… except God wouldn't smell like orchids.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Matthew.”

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

Yeah. Yeah, he knew who this was supposed to be, but… “She’s dead. _You’re_ dead.” And even after all this time, saying it out loud still made his breath catch.

“Not quite, it would seem,” and there was a smile in her voice that he wanted to bask in.

Matt tried to locate where the words were coming from, but it was almost impossible without a body, a mouth, to go with the voice. It wasn’t resonating quite right. “I don’t understand,” he mumbled. “Where are you? How…?”

A slight breeze near his face came and went so quickly he wondered if he’d just imagined it. “Do you remember the first time I died?”

“I held you,” he whispered. “I held you, and I felt your life and your blood leave you, and I…” He couldn't go on.

And the pain of it was still fresh, at times overwhelming, if he ever dared to let himself dwell on it. Which, of course, he did: a dried flower in his Prayers book, the sai he’d picked up on the roof after… after. He had so few precious mementos of her life; they were proof she’d existed, she’d changed his life in the few moments they’d had together. Foggy would probably tell him it wasn’t healthy, that he should grieve and move on, but what Foggy didn’t know he couldn't worry about, and Matt planned on keeping things that way. Holding on to her memory meant she wasn’t really dead, somehow. Right? Few people had known her, _really_ known her. He couldn't let her be forgotten as if she’d never existed.

“I think about you every day. I pray for you,” he said. He was starting to understand how to find her; there was a cold spot that moved around him, and the light steps and barely-there perfume followed it. He hoped, he really hoped he was dreaming or hallucinating her, and that her soul was not trapped here. She deserved peace and freedom at last, not… not _this_ , whatever this was.

“I don’t need or want your prayers, Matthew.”

He grinned. “But I’ll pray anyway.”

“I know,” she replied, her voice fond. It warmed him like the blankets and the stove couldn't, thawed that little piece of his heart that losing her had left frozen and, he’d thought, forever dead. “I wouldn't expect anything less from you.”

Matt wriggled a hand outside of his nest of blankets and held it out in front of himself, hoping to feel her better whenever she’d be near. “How is it possible you’re here?”

“I do not know, not really. Something yanked me to you and there you were, sinking in the water.”

God. It had to be God, right? Maybe He’d sent her as his guardian angel. “You saved me. I heard you, and you saved me.”

“Not really.” And her tone had grown bitter. “I can’t touch you. I couldn't drag you out of the water; I couldn't take you anywhere safe and warm. You saved yourself, and then I had to go nudge these two idiots in your direction.”

“They’re not idiots.”

“Oh, _Matthew_. You always want to believe the best of people. As you did of me, too.”

“And look at that; I was right after all. I’m alive thanks to you.”

“If I’d had my way, I wouldn't have taken you here.”

“Yeah, it’s not your usual kind of digs.” He could hear her footsteps, quick and restless, all around him. It was strange, hearing them without feeling the vibrations through the floor. The disconnect made him a bit dizzy; at least he could still feel the building shiver every time the subway sped through underground. If he hadn’t, he’d have started to wonder if his sense of touch was gone, but it was just her. Just Elektra. “But you’re here now. I’ve called for you, missed you so much. It’s like God’s listened to my prayers, finally.” Matt’s breath hitched, and then he felt something small and freezing on his face. Nothing, no one was touching him; there was only the cold that told him she was following the tear tracks on his cheek.

“You are sad,” she said.

“No, I am happy.”

“You’re crying.”

“Because you’re here with me. We’ve had so little time together.” Wanting her to stay was selfish, he knew, and yet… “Please stay.” He couldn’t quite tell if he meant it or not.

“It’s just one night, Matthew. I’ll probably fade away when the day comes.”

“Then we can stay here, never go outside again. We can be together again; we can…”

“No.”

“Then take me with you, wherever you’re going.”

“ _No_ , Matthew. You are alive, and so you shall live. You have to. Why do you think I am here, now? Please. Live and be happy, for me. For yourself.”

But that was too much; Matt threw the blankets away and tried to stand on shaky legs. He only managed to kneel, both hands in front of him; what if he could touch her? What if he could really touch her, grab her wrist, pull her into his arms and hold her, hold her again at last. They could have that, couldn't they? If God had brought her back to save his life, then what was the point if they couldn’t even touch?

“I’ve lost you too many times,” he said, “don’t make me go through this again. Don’t, _please._ ”

“You’ve already lost me. I am not really back, Matthew.”

With only one blanket loose around his shoulders, the cold was seeping into him. Not Elektra’s cold, it wasn’t sharp enough, but the stove probably needed more wood. He didn’t care. “Why did you save me, then? Why did God send you here to save me, if it’s to take you away again?” He felt around his neck until he could close his fingers around the little crucifix Maggie had given him. “What’s He playing at?” He threw the necklace away, not caring where it landed, and fell forward on his hands. “It’s cruel. You’re a cruel God!” He wanted to shout, scream, but his throat was still raw and it ended into a rasp.

“You’re shivering; there are logs near the stove.”

“No. I want to touch you.”

“Trying to will only make you colder.” _And sadder_ , she didn’t say. He knew it was the truth, and he knew it didn’t matter. He _wanted_ it.

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

He could feel his skin break into goosebumps, the way his muscles quivered, but he still shrugged the blanket off. There he was, naked on a dirty floor, cold and ready to give up on life if he lost her again.

“Matthew, put some wood in the stove.”

“No.”

“Don’t be so stubborn!”

He grinned. “Have you met me?”

“You can’t out-stubborn death.”

“Oh, can’t I?”

“Matthew – ”

“Tell me you're here; tell me you’re not a hallucination. Tell me you’ll stay.”

“Your skin’s turning blue, Matthew!”

“I wouldn't know, would I?”

“Trust me.”

“Oh.” That cut straight through his strings, and he fell back on his haunches. “I do. Even when I should have known better, I always did.” And really, whenever she’d hurt him, it hadn't been her choice, had it? No, it hadn’t; he’d never believe otherwise.

“Then listen to me. Put a log in the stove and get under those covers; I will not see your soul leave your body.”

He tilted his head. “So you believe in souls, now?”

“For tonight, I do. Come on, Matthew.”

And she sounded so scared, he finally did it. He shuffled to the stove and found the pile of wood, felt for the latch and opened the stove to throw the broken crate parts into it. “There,” he said. “Guess I’m not allowed to die, right?”

“No, you’re not.”

He got back to the blankets and wrapped them around himself, staying close to the stove; it was heating up once more and he could feel his limbs loosen up again. He’d often wished for death, if he were honest with himself. Now, with Elektra right by him, knowing that he’d lose her again… He felt hollowed out. Every time she’d left him, in life or death, she’d taken a piece of him with her. He wondered if anything would be left, in the morning. Maybe there would be nothing, just the empty shell of Matt Murdock, going through the motions of life like an automaton until his own body died.

“You should sleep.”

“You’re here.” Even if he had to fight to keep awake now, he refused to give up. How could she, how could God expect him to go on after losing her again and again and _again_? “I don’t want to wake up with you gone. I feel alive with you.”

“You have so much to live for, Matthew: your career helping people, your friends… you can’t give up on all of that. You’re not a quitter; you’re a Murdock. Doesn’t that mean something? All the people you save, don’t they count for something? All the people who know and love you today, those who will meet you and love you tomorrow… Tomorrow matters, Matthew, and you have many tomorrows ahead of you.”

“ _You_ know me.”

“I am quite sure you are far from alone and friendless. Make the most of what you have; take it with both hands and don’t let go. Death is overrated, Matthew. And when the time comes, you’ll be all the better for having lived. We’ll meet again; I know you believe that.”

“Will… will I be with my dad again, too? Will I…” All the people he’d lost; all the people who should have lived, and died. He wanted to be back in that tiny kitchen, reading his school books while his dad overcooked pasta and sang along the radio. He wanted to be back on that bench, eating ice cream and finding hope again, before Stick discarded him. He wanted to hear the warmth of Foggy’s voice again, Maggie’s sharp words and unsaid affection… _Tomorrow_. The floor was hard, but he didn’t really mind; he was warm and loose-limbed and he wasn’t alone.

Someone was humming nearby, the melody a familiar, comforting memory. It reminded him of his childhood, somehow, of the plastic tablecloth under his bare arms and of the cheap beer his dad would often drink in the evening. He could almost hear the words… _Time after time_ , and he remembered.

_If you're lost, you can look and you will find me_

_Time after time_

_If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting_

_Time after time_

“I miss you,” he said. Or maybe he just thought it.

When he woke up, the fire had almost gone out in the stove. There were some cars driving past outside, but not enough for it to be late in the morning. One of his hands had found its way out from under the blanket and it was particularly cold now, cold enough he had to move the fingers a bit to feel it come back to life. There was something in it. He closed his fist around it and last night suddenly came back to him: Elektra’s presence, how she’d saved him, body and soul… and now, somehow, the crucifix he’d thrown away was back in his palm. Was it her, or was it God? He didn’t know.

But she’d died for him once; she’d come back from death for one night and saved him so he’d live. He felt he had a duty to her now, a duty to let himself enjoy life until his time came. It wouldn't mean forgetting her; it would mean honoring her memory. Her last wish. He’d go to church and light a candle for her later in the day, he decided, and pray for her to be at peace. He’d ask Maggie to tell him about his dad, he’d stop going out every single night and take Foggy and Karen to Josie’s more often, he’d call Claire and be a better friend. He’d live, and remember Elektra, and thank her every day in his prayers for all she’d given him, the good and the bad. It was the gift of life.

And then, one day, maybe they’d meet again.

**Author's Note:**

> You can listen to [Time After Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdQY7BusJNU) here.


End file.
